Falling Into Fate
by Tare-Bear
Summary: Destiny works in funny ways. Somehow, someway, they were going to end up the way they do. No matter what. *Origins story with a lot of twists and completely altered plot to make sure it's not another repeat of the game. Starting from childhood; Amell's, Alistair's, Morrigan's, Zevran's, and many more. Following them throughout adulthood and the inevitable end.
1. Birth of Legends

Part 1, Childhood

**Chapter One- "Birth of Legends"**

* * *

><p><em>Early Dragon Age; Summer<em>

_Theirin Royal Estate, Denerim, Ferelden_

Henrietta Maria, elven maid-servant, lay withering in the dirty sheets, upon the bed within her servants' chamber, hidden deep within the stone walls of Denerim's royal palace, home of the noble King Maric and beloved Queen Rowan. About her hovered the mid-wife, a fellow maid-servant, an old physician, and one disdained faced young man standing at the door, who averted his eyes modestly to the more than exposed Henrietta. All of them there either to ensure a safe delivery or to witness the birth of an already infamous bastard son, belonging to both the maid and her once-lover of nine months past, King Maric himself.

Elsewhere within the palace King Maric paced up and down, praying silently. He was riven with anxiety, not only because the previous night he had received word of Henrietta's labor, but also due to the fact that it had become dangerously close to his wife's attention.

Fortunately, come the sun rise, he had persuaded Queen Rowan to visit the local Chantry for the evening and to spend her day in pray. Just one relief to the fair haired man, while his thoughts constantly went to pondering what conspired within the servants' chamber, where his son was being born that very hour. The longer the wait, the more his hands wrung together in his vigorous strut. The intangible passion he may have once felt for the exotic elven woman, Henrietta, utterly faded within the brillant new surge of curiosity and want he felt towards the child they made.

Maric paid no heed to the two men watching him, lest they notice his irrational thinking of actually holding onto something as scandalous and preposterous as a bastard child.

A young Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir sat observantly, while his friend fret, none the wiser, sitting in complete ease across the chamber-room, delicately tracing the arm of his chair. Next to the chamber door stood Arl Eamon Guerrin, not so oblivious. Brother-in-law to the notorious Maric, he saw more than the Teyrn; the nervous tremor running up Maric's legs, the constant unclenching and clenching of his fingers.

Everyone waited. Nothing could be dealt with until the child was delivered. And as Henrietta cried out, arching her back, matted sweat-drenched hair pressing into the sheets, the child slid free of her. Blood hemorrhaged from between her thighs the same moment, sending the physician to a flustered amount of work. The child swept into the mid-wife's arms, disconnected, cleaned, and wailing.

The stationary man at in the doorway sprinted from the birthing room at the sound, hell-bent on reaching Maric's chambers of privy, the clock chiming noon the moment his flushed face peeked through the doors.

"Well?" demanded Loghain.

"It is a healthy son," said the man, breathless.

This caused a shadow to play over both Loghain's and the Arl's face. A son. A threat. A competitor to the throne or to a real heir of King Maric's and his wife. Any glimmer of hope that it may be a girl, who could easily be swept into the arms of a nurse maid, had vanished.

As their minds lingered over the dark, King Maric reeled to capture just how this will go. He knew he had a duty and the boy will need to be sent away as quickly as possible, but the surge of curiosity consumed him. He was a man who had always done things for the better of his home-land, Ferelden, especially after he rid them of the Orlesian. Except now he found it exceedingly difficult to do what was right.

"And the mother?" he asked, dutifully.

"Not well," answered the man. "She was weak from the start. There is only so much that can be done. Thus I came quickly, she may be drawing her last breath this very moment, Your Majesty."

Somewhat jumpily Maric and his entourage ushered themselves from the room. The three other men stood close at his back as he entered into the servants' cramped chamber-room only to be met with a waft smell of blood so strong it overwhelmed their sense. Laid beneath sheets, with blooms of scarlet smeared across it's white coloring, was the stiff, cooling corpse of once-liked Henrietta. Many hard looks were shared between the men as the physician regrettably muttered her passing to the Maker.

"Your son," the mid-wife said, drawing the men's eyes to her, stationed sadly at the side.

Maric studied the baby, swathed in her arms, then held out a arm towards it, motioning for her to hand him over. The mid-wife's eyes turned alarmed.

"But, Your Majesty, he-he's in good hands here. I assure you I can watch a child and up-hold my duties to the palace. It's what she would have wanted. He will never know, no one will. D-Do not hurt him, Your Majesty, of this I beg you." Her arms around the infant tightened, if anything, concealing it's face even further from the King.

"Perhaps, we should only send him away," said Loghain, exasperatedly. "Maric, I say this as your closes companion. You can not have him around. This will not bode your reputation well at all, rumors will only increase and how could you bare it if her Ladyship Rowan caught wind of this? If you can not think of the well being for your image, think of your wife's delicate nature. It will crush he-"

"She is no fool, Loghain," Maric said sharply. "I will not be surprised if she already knows of the child, let alone fully informed about my mistresses. Do not make a mockery of my wife, when I know you have met her fiery side just as fully as myself. She will not sink to jealousy."

Arl Eamon stood in the doorway, lips pressed together firmly as his mind franticly tried to connect Maric's snapping tone and the look of gentle in his eyes as he gazed at the child. With one loud order Maric had the child handed to him from the trembling mid-wife and he shifted back the blankets to take in the infant's face.

"Maker!" exclaimed the king and looked fleetingly back at Henrietta Maria. "There is no wonder he has injured her beyond a physicians reach!"

Everyone looked down at the child.

_By Andraste's grace, _thought Loghain, his mask slipping. _Look at the size of him!_

He was a giant, surely, with great strong limbs and a head of wispy blonde curls. Maric reached down a hand and, as he did so, the baby reached up his right and snatched at the golden crown embroidered on Maric's sleeve.

"Observe!" said the physician, his wise-old voice filling the death stained chamber. "He was born a king, truly! No bastard at all. See how he grasp for what shall be his!"

"It will not be his!" hissed the startled Loghain. "He is but a bastard child. Maric, get rid of him."

"Do not be too rash, my friend," laughed the carefree Maric, a grin splitting his face. Although there was worry etched into his eyes, he looked to the physician with humor. "He is but a old man, clearly ailed and without his wits. Since when has an old physician's talk ever frightened you, Loghain?"

Feeling mocked Loghain merely scoffed as the physician shakes his head sadly. Still, Arl Eamon remained silent and leaning into the door frame.

Maric's amusement ended at the moment the mid-wife cried out, of which Maric joined into, for the baby's hand tightened about the crown and tugged at it, tearing it away from his father's sleeve.

Any lightheartedness in the room was squelched as they all stared in disbelief at the blue-eyed child with the shred of fabric clutched firmly within its fingers. Uneasy, but trying to break tension, Maric forced a laugh. "I shall have to watch my back, surely. In case this boy of mine decides to snatch my crown."

"You can not be considering letting him..._grow up,_" said a increasingly worried Loghain. "It will come back to haunt you. It is like letting a Bloodmage live in you very home. Deceit will surely come from it." He gestured harshly at the child's fist. "Is that not omen enough?"

Maric looked contemplative. "I suppose you're right," said the king, with a torn motive. Part of him wished to keep the boy at arms length. To raise him, to give him words of advice. Bastard child or not, it was his first one and it brought out foreign emotions he was not quite ready to channel.

"Your Majesty!" cried the mid-wife, clearly disturbed by their talk. "Give him to me, I will watch him. Henrietta was my dear friend, please. You can't harm a child. Andraste would surely disapprove, we are all creations of the Maker. Have mercy."

"Hold you tongue, servant," said Loghain, shouldering to the king's side. He sent the infant a reproachful glare. "I can have some of my men carrying him out of the palace this very hour, if they must. No one will be the wiser. Drop him in the Waking Sea and not even the body will resurface to–"

"Brother," Eamon interrupted, speaking for the first time. He possessed a voice that demanded their attention, and inevitably everyone's eyes drew to his. "Give him to me. I shall raise him within the confinements of Redcliffe. No one will be the wiser, there is no need for the child to suffer. It is not he who brought about the unfortunate scandal of his birth."

There was a edge to his voice hinting to the disappointment he felt at Maric's habits, that had resulted on him cheating on the Arl's sister, the Lady Queen, to create the boy in the first place. Although there would be no outright scolding for it, because it is so common among the nobles, Eamon was the kind of man who would stand against the needless death of a child. Especially with the fresh corpse of it's mother so close by.

_There is no need for two pointless deaths, _he thought darkly.

There was silence for a long time as Maric stared down at the bastard son. Meanwhile, the mid-wife stepped forward, prying the torn piece of material out of the infant's fist, and he began to wail unbearably, bringing back the uneasiness from before.

"You shall surely die a beloved, aged king," murmured the worn-faced physician. "It is no omen to be feared." But there was a sliver of doubt flashing across his gray eyes, that he lowered to the floor.

"Of course not," said Maric, looking self-assured, eyebrows kitting together as he turned to face his bother-in-law. "I trust that Redcliffe is far enough away, Loghain, that he will be nothing of a nuisance. You'll raise him right, Eamon." The child was transferred arms, and almost every one in the room shivered with dread as it bawled louder in response. "I trust your wife won't detested him too much?"

"No one shall know he is of your kin," the Arl dutifully replied.

There were very serious looks passed among the three official men of the room; King Maric, Arl Eamon, and Teyrn Loghain. This was a silent transaction. It was agreed this child did not exist, over the body of the infant's dead mother and as they swept from the room, the mid-wife suddenly flung herself forward, clutching Eamon by the arm.

"She named him!" the woman gasped. "Henrietta, on her last breath, she told me what she wanted him to be called. If, sire, you could just give her this much–"

"Very well," said Maric, waving a hand in impatience. "What is this name?"

There was a moment where she hesitated, faltered and then murmured, nearly inaudibly, "Alistair."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Four Years Later<strong>_

_Early Dragon Age; Spring_

_Lake Calenhad Docks, Ferelden_

A young woman hurried along the pathway of mud and sopping grass, scanning the surrounding area for people. The rain had stopped falling half an hour ago but the gray clouds had yet to clear on the horizon and her thin, ragged clothes were soaked to the bone. There was an child held against her chest, in the same shivering state as the woman, and she hastened to clutch it closer.

She paused to draw in a deep breath once she reached the base of a hill. To her right was a battered building, with a loosely applied wooden exterior. The sign protruding from it's side screeching against the rusty nails at the wind's harsh influence.

One fell swoop sent it crashing into the wall, and the woman cringed, looking up franticly, before settling once more. _Thank Andraste, _she thought, relieved she was not discovered.

Tactfully, she had been waiting all day for this opening of no persons. All throughout the morning she stood behind the rows of trees for this specific opportunity. Fatigue had gotten to the Templar working the docks and not but five minutes previously, the man had sauntered into the pub, thinking that it would only be one drink. While unknowingly he had just given the desperate and starving twenty-five year old the one thing she had been standing through the rain for.

"Forgive me," she whispered to the child as she paced across the creaking dock.

The girl was asleep, but even with her lids closed the young woman could see the startling blue depths of her eyes in the forefront of her memory. She would never forget the child. No matter that the girl was only but two years old.

Regret cut through the woman like an icy knife, when she laid the child into the seat of the small boat that was tied to the dock. Although at the same time, she could not deny how light the kid felt or the way the child's cheekbones protruded from her gaunt-featured face.

_She's starving, _the woman knew. There was a pang of failure in her heart. Tears glazed her eyes that she struggled to keep at bay. The now ever-familiar emptiness in her gut churned at the thought of hunger. Knowing her own frailness as well she tried to stop the shaking of her hands as they withdrew from around the child.

_We're starving, _she corrected mentally. _This is for the best. For both of us._

At that thought a wind swept across the surface of Lake Calenhad. Her gaze turned to the water, then inevitably to the tower set in its middle, casting a shadow so dark along the water it seemed to loom dark, black... corrupted.

A chill worked its way along her spine. Not from the frigid current, but as a result to all the rumors she's ever heard of about The Circle of Magi.

_It is a terrible place_, she thought. With Templars who loved to tear down mages. With overpowering, snide First Enchanters who even hold prejudice to their own kind. A lingering awful feel of being trapped and suffocated, always watched and constantly being assumed untrusting.

It was the curse of magic. One that the child had been blessed with, resulting in the life of running, fighting for their next meal, and avoiding the city with its job infested mists all because of the continual fear of apostate hunters.

Sadly, she blew the child a kiss. The woman had told herself that she would never do it. She had tried, _tried so hard, _to keep the child out of the Circle, but it was to no avail. Being put into the Circle, into the hands of Templars and scholars who can teach her of her curse, was far better than dying of starvation or hypothermia.

"Alright, alright! I'm going," echoed a slurred voice, causing the woman to leap to her feet.

A thrill of terrifying emotions ran across her flesh. The Templar on duty was backing out of the door, shouting and laughing to someone within the pud; The Spoiled Princess. A new sense of urgency clutched the woman. Fearing to be caught she streaked off the dock, heading for the nearest coverage.

Halfway there she remembered something important.

Heart pounding and her eyes on the man as she sprinted back, she pulled something from her pocket. It was tattered and stained with wine, but it was meaningful to the woman. It was her last piece of hope. Somehow, someway, the child would make its way back to her. She just knew it. Her heart would have burst with grief and pain if she did not believe this.

She reached the child, and the man entered the pub once more, much to her utter relief. Knowing she had not very long, she knelt down against the wood and had one last look of the child's face; ivory skin, scarlet curls, supple features. The woman's tears shed, no longer able to hold them back.

"Maker bless you, and grant you sweet dreams," murmured the woman, and place the parchment just next to the child's neck. In a way that someone will notice the note, instead of easily dismissing it. The lady very well knew she could have taken the child to any Chantry across Ferelden, that in turn would bring it here, but this seemed better. It seemed more proper in the sense that someone would get when leaving their child with anyone else.

When separating with someone close to your heart, you don't take them halfway to where they're going. You see them all the way through their journey, through the rough patches and tears and hardships, until they reach their destination.

The goodbye was shortened by the sound of the pub door. The woman bee-lined to the forest and had disappeared into the blurs of pines and shrubs, just as the Templar turned. He took his leisurely time walking over to the dock, woozily pacing the edge of the water.

Once upon it he noticed a flash of color in the boat. He rushed over, hand on the hilt of his sword, suddenly somber. When he saw the child the air rushed from his tense form, relief evident in his face. The man was slightly mystified. He took notice to the parchment and plucked it into his fingers, scanning the surrounding area for signs of who could have left it.

Coming up empty, his eyes dropped to the words of ink.

**Her name is Tera Amell.**


	2. Age Three

**Chapter Two- "Age Three"**

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><p><em><em>Redcliffe Castle, Ferelden<em>_

Seated within his throne, Arl Eamon, sighed heavily a hand lifting momentarily to press into his eyelids, as if to ward off a bright light. When he withdrew the hand his eyes fell past the rows of Redcliffe citizens, standing within his courtroom, and zoned in on the sight of a nurse-maid, standing with her back pressed against the far wall, a small boy seated at her feet. He was regarding his toes as if they were the most fascinating things in creation.

His tired frown suddenly tilted into a smile.

This action did not, however, go unnoticed by the woman seated on his right. In a throne, much smaller than the Arl's and placed further back from the head of the chamber, Arlessa Isolde sat less tiredly and instead on the very edge of her seat, eyes narrowed. Isolde was trained enough in the ways of the Orlesian nobles, due to heritage, to know that in leaders, or of anyone of higher status in the presence of others, it is key to hide anything amiss. Burst of emotions are considered improper. Fits are a matter of embarrassment. Childish possessiveness would drop her respect rating to zero.

She knew all that, but it did not stop the sudden suspicious bloom of jealousy and indignation inside of her breast as she watched her husbands eyes trace over the child as if he adored it beyond herself. To her knowledge the boy's name was Alistair, he has been within the household for three years. Years of wails echoing out of the servant's chamber. Months of the thing moving from the arms of every member in the household staff to even as far as the guards about the halls. Isolde witnessing left and right moments where even the Arl would pause and give it soft words, press a hand into it's cheek, partake in the attempt to teach it to walk or share with it a new word that it'll eagerly repeat.

She shifted in her throne, the same old thoughts and doubt gnawing into her mind. Bitterness arose in her gut, burning like bile up her throat and searing within her mouth. Her dainty hands clenched around the arm of the throne as she forced her face to be seamless. Any of the citizens or nobles present for court this morning would not even had known the turmoil overtaking the young woman.

_It's not his, _she willed to herself. _He wouldn't do that to me._

As much as she repeated this statement to herself over the past three years it did not stick. Eamon was just too compassionate for his own good. It was obvious he cared for the child. Isolde had been told it was the child of the maid-servant standing over him, with her porcelain skin and thick curling black hair.

Her stomach knotted, causing her to sit suddenly straighter and almost immediately she gave up her pretending. The fatal blow of her ego, left her feeling vulnerable. Especially as she stared across the chamber straight into the face of the child that shouted, _screamed, _her husbands break in loyalty. To her the child was just the evidence to the Arl's betrayal.

She felt foolish. She had thought that Eamon would be different, not like all the other high society males. There was no doubt in her heart that she loved the man dearly. He was few of many in Ferelden of who would help spare Orlesian within the lands, practically saving her own neck when King Maric expelled all Orlesian rule within the nation. The Arl was her savior.

And then he slept with another woman.

It was like a slap in the face. For him to lie to her on top of it, was even worse.

Abruptly Isolde stood. Many drew their eyes to the Arl's wife as she walked across the floor, heading down from the head of the chamber, and in a forcibly calm nature stepping up to the woman and child standing just to the side of the door.

The maid-servant looked startled, curtsying and mumbling a soft, obedient welcome to Isolde.

The Arlessa merely stared at her evenly, hiding her glare with effort and unexpectedly crouched down to the child. She felt like a hand was wrapped around her heart, squeezing it. Every breath coming in painfully, with a hard-pressed constriction that threaten to choke her with hatred.

She hated the child with his wide, blue eyes.

"Silly, whoring mother," Isolde cooed under her breath to Alistair. Her voice was only loud enough for the child to know the words, but about the chamber her soft, hushed whispering seemed to be motherly. "Don' even look a'thing like her, do you? No, of course not. You have blue eyes..._like Eamon."_

One of her hands moved to him, ruffling his short blonde waves almost curiously. Eamon wasn't blonde, nor was Alistair's mother. For a minute Isolde was distracted from her bitterness to become perplexed.

The maid-servant cleared her throat softly. "Is there something you needed, Lady Guerrin?"

"No, nothing," said Isolde, her Orlesian accent heavy. She stood, looking around the room quickly to find that many were curiously watching her, as to see what she was up to. Eamon was talking quietly to Bann Teagan, Isolde's brother, and she felt another pang of despair and bitterness resurfacing.

_Imagine, _she thought, _if Teagan knew, albeit if he does not already know, my inability to keep my husband within my own bed._

Her cheeks flushed with equal embrassment and anger. Suddenly wanting to flee, as to resist the savage urge to slap the whoring maid-servant across the face, who had the audacity to still even speak to her, let along meet her gaze, she also felt an outburst at her husband could be a very real possibility and knew that it would be best saved for more confidential environments.

With the peoples stares still watching she knelt back to the child, pulling from her clothes a red ball made of finely combed sheep's wool. It was something she had of Orlais. They were very fashion oriented there and her mother had taught her many years ago as a girl how to knit. From time to time she would pull out similar special bought balls of wool, that Eamon got for her, and knit, but now everyone across the room saw her giving these gifts to the boy.

Alistair lifted his eyes from his toes and regarded her with solemn orbs of blue. Isolde waggled the ball at him, and the boy smiled, and reached out his hands.

"What an ugly boy, you are," said Isolde, using her nurturing tone to disguise the true nature of her words. "I'll give Eamon a better son. Stronger, fitting to our heritage, handsome."

Now the boy laughed, because her lips curled up into a sneer that he found much like the faces the housemaids would make at him for his own amusement. He grabbed at the ball, rolling it around between his palms.

"You'll see," Isolde continued, "I will have your stain in this house gone before you even know it."

With that last statement–no, _promise_–the Arlessa stood, nodded a goodbye to the maid-servant and muttered a soft excuse of leave to the guard at the door to pass along to her husband. Alistair remained on the ground, blissfully unaware, intrigued with the ball of red wool that he tangled hopelessly about his wrists.

* * *

><p><em><em>Ferelden Circle Of Magi, Apprentice Quarters, Ferelden<em>_

"She's so _little_!" cried an apprentice. The same apprentice that had, ulterior to her outburst had been hard at work, hand flying across parchment as she dutifully recited all mental magic techniques her mentor had been training her with. The ten-year-old Petra looked up from her studies though, to find with utter disbelief sitting on the floor not two feet away from the steps to the Senior Mage Quarters was a girl.

A small toddler, of no more than three years, makes a face at the apprentice. For a moment Petra was frozen and then in a second flat she flung herself to her knees before the child, probing it lighting in the chubby thigh.

"I've never seen someone so young here before," confessed a voice. Petra looked up to meet the gaze of a curious, wide eyed teen boy. He leaned over the arm of his chair, seated not far from the apprentice and the toddler. The boy's name was Finn and he tossed aside the book of ancient elven magic, that his mentor forced into his studies, while cautiously joining the ten-year-old Petra before the child.

"I've never seen one at all!" said Petra. Having been in the Circle of Magi since the age of six, there was no memory within her mind that matched up to a face so round or eyes so big. Petra's curious and gentle side poked out when she smiled at the toddler, only to find it wrinkled it's nose with distaste in return. She cocked her head to the side, then grinned wickedly, tickling the stubborn toddler into submission. It gave a shriek and withered until Petra withdrew her hands, smirking. "What's your name?" Petra asked the young-ling.

"I doubt she can talk," Finn said softly. They both stared at the girl, who upon being tickled bashfully buried her face between her chest and arms. It was obvious the child was shy. Under exposed. Petra and Finn exchanged worried glances, just as another person came sauntering into the room.

The two older children hid the toddler from view, hurriedly jumping to their feet to stand shoulder to shoulder, with their backs to the small girl. They clamped both hands behind their backs in respect, out of habit and sudden guilt. Their legs hid the toddler from sight.

"Finn, _how _many time do I have to tell you? I'm going to quiz you over the enchantments of the Dalish tomorrow, and if you don't get that down soon, then how do you expect you'll be ready for any sort of Harrowing in a few years?"

"S-Sorry, Senior Enchanter Sweeney," said Finn fleetingly. "I g-got distracted."

The mentor paused in his walk and lifted his eyes from the pages of the book propped up in his hands. Suspicions very clearly shone in Senior Enchanter Sweeney's eyes and with one quick snap his book was closed. "Perhaps Petra should be getting to her own studies?"

"Oh, no I-I just finished," Petra lied feebly. "I was..."

"Just off to find," smoothly put in Finn, "Senior Enchanter Wynne, to tell her."

Petra nodded, enthusiasticly, but Sweeney pursed his lips together, eying the two intensely. "I see," he grunted. "Shall I get her then? I'll save you the trouble, I am heading to the second floor anyway." He paced forward, towards the stair case and walked around the odd acting apprentices.

Petra panicked, and franticly tried to maneuver the toddler behind the nearby desk, while Finn moved to step in the way on the other side. The plan might of worked, aside the child suddenly lurched forward around Finn's legs and grabbed onto Senior Enchanter Sweeney's pants leg.

The man gave a startled _hmph, _and the small girl tossed back her head, calling with a lisp, "_Swweeen_."

Sweeney jumped at the sight of the red-headed toddler. "Maker's breath, child! How in the world did you get down here? Isn't Irving watching you!" He shoved the book in his hands at the stationary Finn, and scooped up the girl. "Did you crawl down here all by yourself? Where are those other Enchanters? Knight-Commander Greagoir would have a fit if he found out..."

Petra pouted to herself as she watched Sweeney retreat to the top of the stairs, disappearing with the child his scolding voice fading the faster he climbed. The two apprentices all but forgotten.

"You don't think the Circles letting in kids _below_ six now, do you?" Finn whispered.

Petra's eyes widened, and she swung around to face the older boy. "Are they allowed?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's some sort of test project, to see if they can handle it, you know?"

"Doesn't look like it, if she's slipping away."

There was a long pause, then, "Maybe she's special."

"How?" Petra mocked him, rolling her big blue eyes exaggeratedly. "She's like,__three__. How much magic can she really channel?"

"Well why else would they have her here? Locked up on the Senior Enchanter floor? The only reason they don't take kids until they're six is because that's when they start to show signs of being a mage and become dangerous to the peoples. You know that, it's the first thing we ought to learn."

"_Or," _countered a suddenly annoyed Petra, "she's a kid of a mage and they didn't want to give her up to the Chantry." She took on a tone to imitate his '_you should know that'_ one._ "_It's a law! That's the first one you ought to learn." She stuck her tongue out at the boy, obviously not keen on being chided.

Finn scoffed, but nonetheless took her statement seriously, as it did hold a substantial amount of logic. Then he laughed. "You know he's really gonna send Wynne, and you haven't even started on your reading assignment."

Petra's face blanked, and then she dropped her stubbornness, throwing herself back over to the desk. The moment she began to write furiously Finn slumped back into his arm chair, boredly overlooking the elven magic book once more.

A few weeks later, submerged in books and writing and rules, the two apprentices quickly forgot their meeting with the strange red-headed toddler.

* * *

><p><em><em>A cabin, edge of Korcari Wilds, Ferelden<em>_

The woman was beautiful. She had thick, black hair that twisted down her lithe form and when she smiled her face was like the shadows of the stars; blinding, captivating, loving. And when she walked, the way she talked... oh, _everything. _All of it drove him completely and totally mad.

"Oh, flowers!" she exclaimed, when she looked up at him, noticing his approach. "Arnold, you really shouldn' have." And all the same she took the handfuls of red and purple blooms from his arms.

They smelt like lavender and roses, and nutmeg, and sugar.. everything good in the world, and she knew. Her glinting amber eyes raised slyly back to her lover's blue ones and she smiled roguishly. "This is a new spell," she commented, leafing through the flowers and trying to chose her favorite one. She couldn't.

"Twas only an enchantment, really." He shrugged and she drew him closer by an arm finding his waist. At the same time she kissed him, he wondered how he had found such a marvelous woman; beautiful, loving, delicate and devilish in nature, and to top it all off, an apostate. Just like him.

They were a couple deeply in love, Arnold Barink and Brianna Cote, and nothing in the world would separate them. Since they were teenagers they had known each other, both because of the Templars hunting each other. Once, she had tried to deal away an arrest by giving away Arnold's known hide out. And twice, he had given himself up to help her escape. They always found each other, somewhere in Ferelden during those years. And finally... _finally, _after whispered words, sweet kisses, and a late night, she had agreed to settle somewhere with him. He was ecstatic, of course, when he received her letter sealed with a kiss, but had not anticipated the friend she had brought with her to the cabin they'd built on the edge of the Korcari Wilds, far, far from Templars.

It was a small guest, no taller than his knee, a head of wooly black hair and almond shaped amber eyes, just like Brianna's. "Flower," she told Arnold her name was. "Her father was a florist, and she loves anything pretty. Keep all your shiny things hidden." Then she giggled and he could never have cared about past mistakes.

Brianna loved her daughter passionately, the same way she loved everything. Sometimes Arnold wondered if she was born that way or if a hard life of prostitution before they met had taught her that one must accept everything, if she was to make decent pay.

When they finally pulled away, flushed of face and breathing heavier, Arnold tilted his lips and glanced down at the flowers. "Actually, I really hadn't, you know. Twas for Flower that I made the enchantment."

Brianna rolled her eyes, shoving him playfully in the chest with the bouquet. "Then go give them to her, you thief. Stealing a poor wench's kisses, and taking back gifts... it is a wonder that I moved here." As he laughed and cradled the flowers between forearm and shoulder, he watched her go back to her knees and get to work on turning the dirt of their gardens. Winter had just ended and Brianna loved to prepare the soil for another year come, readying it to plant the food they would need come harvest. Two apostates with an apostate daughter never dared to venture far from the Korcari Wilds.

The sun was high in the sky that afternoon, sweltering those on the ground. Arnold felt sweat cling to his mage robes on his neck and back, so he hurried his walk toward the polish wooden cabin to the left. Brianna had worked a cooling charm on its interior, where Flower could play safe and comfortable within, and he was eager to share the feel.

Then he reached the door, and his hand flinched away from its blistering heat.

Something was wrong, he knew immediately and tossed the flowers aside, kicking door open with his foot. But the moment he caught a look at what was inside, a feeling of dread sank into his stomach, looking the staff of another mage right in the face.

His cheeks flushed with anger, seeing a old woman behind the weapon, clutching Brianna's two year old daughter by the hand. "Move, and you shall not be harmed," croaked the lady.

Arnold could not understand what he was seeing. As far as he knew there were no neighbors near their isolated cabin. If he thought anyone would come to abduct Flower, he thought only of Templars, not other mages.

By then, Arnold refusing to step down from the doorway and Flower silently, obediently standing with her hand in the stranger's, Brianna began to notice a dilemma. She rose slowly, wiping dirt from her hands on the front of her pants, and her heart stilled at the sight, hands flying to her staff on the ground a few feet away. Arnold lurched toward the women, but was flung backwards by a shower of flames.

He screamed, withering on the ground and Flower's eyes widened in horror. Finally, she began to struggle with the old lady that came to her with whispered promises and pretty jewels, but no more than she began to tug on her hand, did the woman drag her out past Arnold's place and pull her swiftly toward the trees.

"Flower!" Mother screamed for her, and she began to kick and wiggle harder. Then all at once both her and the old lady were bombarded by a fist of stone.

Most of it was blocked by the woman's ward spell, but it was enough to knock Flower's tiny body breathless. She was dizzy, when she saw her mother draw closer, furious, beautiful face now a mask of a fierce wild cat's. "That's my daughter, _hag_," she spat, and Arnold struggled to his feet far behind her.

"Terribly sorry, but I have need of her." The old woman cackled at the next threat that spewed from both the little girl's parents, adopted or no, and then she flung Flower to the ground a few yards behind her.

A battle ensued. One where Arnold was found without staff and Brianna tried her desperate hardest to wield hers. But the old woman was stronger. There was no doubt the couple was more agile and quicker, but less powerful by half, as they were bombarded with spells they never dreamed to learn. Flower, struggling with vines and fallen leafs, crawled over the tree's roots to watch the fight, and sat abject with terror, uncertain. Wanting to help, but not knowing how or who or why. She was too young to know, too young to even remember...

When both beautiful woman and doting man lay dead, amongst the clearing in front of their love shack, the old woman placed her staff along the length of her back and turned to Flower shaking in terror. "Oh, child, hush. I mean you no harm, remember? I only want to teach you. I'll teach you better than they could, sweet, sweet faced girl." She crouched down to the girls height and stared her down with those strange illuminant eyes. Her arms opened toward her. "Come, to Flemeth, child. I'm your mother, now."

Flower hadn't come as easily as the others, Flemeth found. The famous Witch of the Wilds, was forced to drag home a kicking and screaming little girl, and it took many days before the child seemed at ease around her.

Weeks later, she forgot the face of her old mother. There was only the new one; Flemeth.

Months later, she grew so used to Flemeth calling her Morrigan, she forgot her name was Flower.

Years later... a traveler came across a strange cabin, and discovered two charred piles of bones in the front lawn. It was a nice, yet aged cabin, but still.. he moved in. Upon opening the door, he came across a bouquet of flowers hidden among over grown grass. They were enchanted flowers, though, constantly in bloom, smelling like Andraste herself, surely, and he kept them on his kitchen table.

Then, one day, they were dead, and the blight had come upon Ferelden.

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><p><strong><em>AN: _**_The chapters will go by age and every new chapter will get another character in it. (I knew nothing about Morrigan's parents so I improvised.) Thanks for reading, sorry for typos, please review! -Taryn(:_


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